


Used to be so easy

by ohfreckle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Relationship Issues, how do relationships work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has lost his Arthur and goes searching for him.</p><p> <br/><em>The only thing left is a black carry-on, sitting innocuously in the middle of the large single-room apartment that has been Eames’s home for the last seven weeks. Eames doesn’t need to open it to know what’s inside. Two-toned Derby brogues, loose grey trousers, a red leather belt, salmon shirt and green linen jacket.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>It’s all Eames left behind before he flew to Oslo three weeks ago.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>There isn’t anything left of Arthur.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Used to be so easy

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for Inception Reverse Bang on LiveJournal. Many thanks to my lovely and ever-patient artist Motetus and her equally lovely art that is included at the end of the story. If you enjoy this story and/or art, please head over to her art post and leave her some love.
> 
> A huge thank you to anatsuno for the beta!

Everything ends.

Eames’ nan used to tell him that, her papery voice kind and patient when he sat on her knee as a little boy, bottom lip quivering on the verge of tears because he didn’t want the story she just read to end.

This is another story, one Eames isn’t ready to let go just yet. He looks at the keypad next to the heavy steel sliding door, with its blinking red light, and goes to work.

It takes him the better part of the morning to coax the security system into submission. Eames wheedles and cajoles and flings obscenities in three different languages at the hellish mechanism – none of them work, but they still make him feel better – before he finally stops trying to charm it and goes to town. He sits on his suitcase while he works, still in his rumpled suit that smells like stale airports and long distance flight.

When the lock finally submits with a satisfying snick and Eames slides the heavy door open, he looks at– nothing.

Just dark floor boards and red brick walls. No plush carpets and well loved leather sofas, no high-end stainless steel appliances and no ridiculously king-sized four-poster bed.

The only thing left is a black carry-on, sitting innocuously in the middle of the large single-room apartment that has been Eames’s home for the last seven weeks. Eames doesn’t need to open it to know what’s inside. Two-toned Derby brogues, loose grey trousers, a red leather belt, salmon shirt and green linen jacket.

It’s all Eames left behind before he flew to Oslo three weeks ago.

There isn’t anything left of Arthur.

Well, fuck.

~

The first thing Eames does in his hotel room is to trash his suit.

It’s a bit embarrassing, and Arthur had laughed so hard at Eames when he mentioned it, his eyes crinkling and those charming dimples of his appearing, making Eames forget what he was talking about in the first place.

But the thing is, Eames believes in karma, and he’d rather not have something as terrible as losing his Arthur cling to him, even if it means that he has to part ways with his very favorite Boateng.

Eames fondly remembers Arthur taking the suit off of him right after he’d put it on the last time, piece by piece _with his teeth_ , proving all of Eames’ long-harbored fantasies of what Arthur could possibly do with his tongue delightfully inadequate. They aren’t welcome anymore at _Chez Baptiste_ because they missed their reservations twice in a week, but Eames only considers it a small loss. He never cared much for The French.

Eames is slowly on his way to becoming thoroughly trashed, but pissed or sober, all his searches come up with the same results. Arthur hasn’t used any of his credits cards – _none of those you know of_ , a derisive little voice that sounds like Cobb keeps nagging in the back of his mind – and both his cell phones drone the same message warning that Arthur is not taking any calls at the moment.

The wanker is avoiding him.

Right before his treacherous body succumbs to exhausted sleep, Eames decides he needs a plan.

~

Carefully taking all circumstances into consideration, the plan he came up with seems to be substantially lacking in planning and execution.

Eames has woken to a lot of strange and unforeseen things in his life.

The slightly stained ceiling above him is nothing new.

Two hairy faces staring at him with the same distinctly unimpressed expression is definitely a novelty.

One of the face-owners is sitting on him and looks feline, with large unblinking eyes and twitching whiskers, its sharp claws digging into Eames’ chest with cattish gusto. It hurts like fuck, even more so because apparently Eames’ chest is naked.

The other face belongs to Yusuf, who _does_ blink but otherwise looks at him with the same pitiless expression.

“Back among the living I see.”

“Not sure,” Eames croaks, coughing a bit. The cat mews at him as if in answer, disgruntled, and jumps off of him, but not without punching him in the chest with its hind legs.

“Coffee?” Eames asks. He hopes he sounds and looks at pitiful as he feels. Yusuf may _look_ like kind, but it’s all a ploy to hide the black soul of a cat lover.

Apparently his grand plan was to get spectacularly pissed and take a flight from Los Angeles to Mombasa, not necessarily in that order. Eames sits up slowly, grateful when the room doesn’t spin around him. He’s naked, except for his boxers and socks.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Yusuf says, placing a mug in Eames’ hands. “It’s been what, less than two months?”

“How did I get here,” Eames asks wearily, shrugging into the shirt that unceremoniously hits him in the face. Despite his usual utter lack of body modesty, it makes him feel better.

Yusuf most definitely isn’t happy to see him, and he _is_ a chemist, which should be a reason for caution. But Eames is desperate and hung over, so he downs what feels like half the cup of coffee in his hands, only to feel his insides about to shrivel and die.

“I already put in the Aspirin you’d ask for later.” The benign smile on Yusuf’s face is utterly terrifying. Eames can’t comprehend how anyone who’s known him for longer than two days can mistake him for a gentle soul.

“As for your question, you showed up at two in the morning, mumbling something about Arthur, and ransacked my liquor cabinet. Please tell me that Arthur isn’t coming here to shoot you. I’m quite attached to this place.”

“If there’s one thing I can assure you of, it’s that Arthur most definitely won’t come after me.”

Eames thinks about his suitcase in the empty apartment and feels his stomach twist with something different than the vile excuse for coffee in his hands. It’s a message. Eames just doesn’t know if it means to come after Arthur or warns him to stay the fuck away.

“Look, it’s not that I do not appreciate the company,” Yusuf starts, wandering to over to stand next to the bed. “It’s just that I already _had_ company when you decided to show up, and quite frankly, it’s much more entertaining than yours. Or it would be, if I didn’t have to take care of you.” He pulls out a notepad in an unsettlingly Arthur-ish move and sits down on the stool next to it. “What do you need to get out of my hair as soon as possible?”

Eames sighs and cards a shaky hand through his hair. He needs a lot of things, first and foremost answers to questions he doesn’t even know. Good advice would be welcome as well. Something most definitely isn’t right, for Arthur to vanish out of Eames’ life like he did.

“Pants, my wallet,” Eames asks instead. _Arthur_ , he mentally adds to the list.

“I have your wallet and I’ll get you some clothes from your house. You do not want to see the trousers you were wearing, believe me,” Yusuf replies, pocketing his notepad when no more requests are forthcoming. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to look for Arthur.”

Eames startles at the last remark. Arthur not being just a call away is a constant itch in the back of his mind, but he knows better than to slip and blurt out his thoughts like that.

“I don’t mean to pry, but does that mean you finally consummated this ridiculous courtship of yours and asked him out?”

Eames thinks back to following Arthur home from LAX, a small tilt of Arthur’s head the only invitation he needed. Their first kiss was nothing like he had imagined countless times over the years, soft and unhurried and _fucking perfect_ , Arthur’s body trembling under his palms.

“We didn’t go out much, but yes,” Eames smiles, unfazed by Yusuf’s grimace at this excess of information. “Best four weeks of my life.”

“What happened?”

“I came back and he wasn’t there. The whole apartment cleaned out, without any hints of why and where he went.”

“You came back… just how long were you gone?” Yusuf asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Only three weeks. It was a long planned job I couldn’t call off.”

“Only three weeks,” Yusuf parrots, again. “Tell me that you did tell Arthur about it before you left.”

The look Yusuf gives him when Eames fails to answer leaves a sour taste in Eames’ mouth. He thinks about Arthur sleeping peacefully and delightfully dishevelled while Eames left a note on his nightstand, his taxi already waiting.

Eames didn’t call, and Arthur didn’t either. They never call between jobs, that’s just not who they are.

The look of pity and disbelief Yusuf slants at him makes him think that maybe the answer should be that it’s not who they _were_.

~

Eames’ house in Mombasa smells as old as it looks after his prolonged absence, but his favourite place in the hammock on the front porch is as comfortable as ever. He spends several days just being a lazy sod, soaking up the dry Kenyan heat and sending texts to Arthur’s phone. None of them are answered, but that’s hardly a surprise.

Eames isn’t daft. This is not the first time Arthur vanishes. They’ve done it all, it comes with the hazards of being a thief and working with criminals as allies and clients. But it’s been a long time since Arthur did so without alerting the people he trusts. Eames used to be proud to have earned his place in that small circle, and now Arthur doesn’t want to be found and this, whatever _this_ is, is most likely Eames’ fault.

Recounting the weeks he spent with Arthur, he thinks of long sweaty nights that left them exhausted and filthy. More often than not, their nights stretched into entire days spent in bed, occasionally emerging long enough to spend the day at art exhibits or fancy little shops selling fancy clothes.

All in all, Eames doesn’t exactly know where he went wrong.

~

Ariadne doesn’t even bat an eye when Eames sits down next to her, at Starbucks Montparnasse of all possible places. They share a slice of cake and talk about her travel plans, and Eames lets her buy him a lime green scarf that she claims goes wonderfully with his favourite purple shirt.

She even lets Eames sleep on her saggy couch after a drink or two too many, and has enough decency not to laugh too hard or mention his age when he complains about her choice of furniture in the morning. Something needs to give and soon, Eames thinks ruefully, stretching to work the kinks out of his neck and back. He most definitely does not want to make a habit of waking up hung over in front of all his friends.

Because Ariadne’s such a good friend, Eames repays her kindness with breakfast. It’s not an easy task, seeing as Ariadne owns just a single pan that wobbles dangerously on her hot plate.

“Ariadne, love, this is not an apartment, this is a hazard to your health,” he says. Ariadne is sitting on the counter with her socked feet tucked close to her body, and she holds a bucket-sized cup out to Eames that he dutifully refills with coffee from time to time.

“I’m a student, I guess it’s expected of me,” she shrugs. “I could move now that I have the money, but– eww, you don’t actually expect me to eat that?”

Eames feels slightly wounded by Ariadne’s look of disgust and her disregard for his efforts; he looks down at the plates he set down next to her. The eggs on them are perfectly rounded, more steamed than fried, the yolk soft and runny. Exactly the way Arthur likes them; the way Eames made them every day in Arthur’s shiny copper pan.

“So, you and Arthur, huh. Can’t say that I’m very surprised.” Ariadne nudges the plate with the offending eggs back towards him.

Eames can’t even remember saying that last thought out loud. Obviously blurting out his every thought about Arthur is another habit he needs to break himself of.

Ariadne looks at him shrewdly, the same carefully neutral look Yusuf gave him just a few days ago.

“For your information, Arthur hates runny eggs. He likes them scrambled with a dash of chili.”

Eames suddenly isn’t hungry anymore.

~

“I need to find Arthur.”

“Yes, I believe you do.”

A strange kind of déjà-vu hits Eames when Cobb doesn’t even blink at Eames showing up unannounced at his doorstep. Cobb looks good, well rested, the harried look in his eyes replaced by the calmness Eames remembers from years ago. They’ve never been close friends, but Eames is glad to see him better.

At least he won’t have to worry about waking drunk in Cobb’s living room. Cobb serves coffee on the patio that’s strewn with toy cars and crayons, keeping an eye on the lawn where James and Philippa are playing, completely engrossed in something that seems to involve sand and enormous amounts of mud, and looks like it will take hours to clean up.

“What do you know about love, Eames,” Cobb asks, his eyes soft as he watches his children.

It’s not often that Eames is at a loss for words. It’s not a question he expected or has an answer for. More precisely, he used to think he had all the answers, but it seems none of them proved right, not with Arthur who seems to be the exception to everything Eames thinks he knows just to spite him.

“Love is being willing to wait, even if it seems like the right time will never come. It’s about compromise, being willing to step out of that familiar circle you’ve drawn around yourself, to accept the things you want from the other person _and_ even some that you don’t.”

“You’ve talked to him.” It’s not a question, and it comes out quieter than Eames intended.

“You should try it yourself sometimes,” Cobb says mildly. “Arthur loves art and museums, but he enjoys a night at the movies just like the next guy. He orders J.Crew online and buys his t-shirts in bulk, and he only has coffee and cereal for breakfast.”

Cobb doesn’t even look at Eames while he rattles of his list, but he still manages to punch Eames just as hard as Yusuf and Ariadne with their quiet and disappointed looks.

“You’re telling me that all these years I’ve been in love with someone who doesn’t exist.”

Cobb fixes him with an exasperated stare.

“I’m telling you that Arthur the Point Man is only part of the package. For whatever reasons, and I assume that I’m one of them, Arthur decided to keep things strictly professional all this time and to only let you see that side of him, even though I know that’s not what he wanted. It’s up to you to decide if you want the whole deal and not just the half-finished image you’ve shaped in your head.”

And because Cobb is an immensely cruel or an immensely kind person – Eames isn’t sure what to think of it right now – he plows on without giving Eames the time to speak for himself.

“Arthur loves surprises and breakfast in bed. He likes being taken care of, he _deserves_ someone who’s willing to care of him. He had to do it for me for much too long.”

Eames nods thoughtfully and stands, ready to leave. He knows a dismissal and _don’t fuck it up_ when he hears one. There isn’t anything left for him to say here, nothing that would be welcome. As much as he wants to be annoyed about Cobb’s lecture, it’s good to know somebody is watching out for Arthur.

“I suppose you’re not going to tell where I can find him.”

“No, but I’ll let him know that you were here,” Cobb confirms coolly. He doesn’t show Eames out, but his parting words follow Eames onto his plane and back to Mombasa.

_“Arthur has never been wise when choosing who he cares about.”_

~

Years of serving in the military and Her Majesty have taught Eames everything he needs to know about warfare and espionage and how to survive even without a backup plan.

It didn’t prepare him for the minefield of love, and the only plan he’s been able to come up with– doesn’t even deserve to be called just that.

“I’m a terrible boyfriend,” Eames says morosely, sitting fully clothed in Yusuf’s lab and taking another sip of Yusuf’s absolutely hideous but thankfully aspirin-free coffee.

“I can only imagine,” Yusuf says, his voice dry.

“I didn’t _know_ I was a boyfriend,” Eames says, defensively, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“You’ve been courting the man for three years. You wouldn’t ever shut about him, not once, and I didn’t even remotely understand what was so special about him until I finally met him.”

Yusuf stands and pours two drinks, putting one down onto desk before Eames before he settles back into his chair and takes a sip. He grimaces at the taste, but obviously, advising on Eames’ fucked up love life is something he’d rather not do unaided.

“You’ve complained for years that he always kept you at a distance. What did you think it meant for him to let you stay and–” Yusuf makes a face and downs half his drink “– and fuck him stupid for weeks? A prolonged night stand, who doesn’t mind if you take off without a word in the morning?”

The awful truth Eames has realized over the last two and half weeks is that he didn’t think at all. If anything, he thought only with his prick.

~

Eames finds Arthur sleeping, curled up in the large hammock on his less than tidy porch. He can’t help but feel a little sting that Arthur didn’t even pick Eames’ decrepit lock to let himself in, respecting his privacy, something Eames can’t claim for himself.

Arthur’s nose and cheeks are pink under his light Californian tan, his skin unused to the dry heat of Mombasa in February. He’s wearing washed-out jeans and a short-sleeved sweater, well-worn boat shoes on his naked feet. He looks young, vulnerable, making Eames feel like a pervert for letting his eyes linger on a bony ankle where the leg of Arthur’s pants has ridden up, like he’s looking at a scandalous Victorian photograph.

Eames hasn’t the slightest idea what it means that Arthur is here, and frankly, he doesn’t care. He simply sinks down on the dusty floor next to Arthur, faint with relief and the unfamiliar stuttering of his heart, and just watches. He’s watched Arthur for years, at first during jobs, and then during those short few weeks in his home, yet he never noticed before how his nose twitches in his sleep, never saw the beginnings of crowfeet around his eyes.

“Stop watching me, it’s fucking creepy,” Arthur murmurs.

“Indulge me, Arthur. I wasn’t so sure I’d ever have the pleasure of seeing your lovely face again. ”

Arthur’s eyes flutter open, regarding him cooly. Eames can’t help but notice the lack of Arthur’s customary answer to compliments. Instead of his usual frown at Eames’ rather enthusiastic declarations, Eames even thinks there might be a small smile lurking at the corners of Arthur’s mouth.

“I wasn’t so sure you had any interest in seeing it again,” Arthur replies, struggling to sit up in the hammock that has started to swing softly. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand and squints against the glaring sun, looking nothing short of adorable with his ears sticking out under his flattened hair. It’s not making this easier for Eames.

“Come inside, you’re getting burned out here,” he says, stalling for time. Eames herds Arthur into the kitchen, where Arthur refuses to sit down and give Eames a chance to busy himself with making tea or coffee. Instead he leans against the counter, challenging Eames wordlessly.

There are a million excuses Eames can think of, a million lies that would slip out smoothly. It’s what he does for a living, but he doesn’t want to do it with Arthur.

“Arthur, I believe I completely cocked this up and I’m sorry.” Eames almost stumbles over the words, rushing them out like he would rip off a band-aid.

“That’s not much, but at least it’s honest,” Arthur says, raising a brow and folding his arms over his chest. But he’s still here, so Eames counts it as a win.

“I… I honestly don’t know what I was thinking to take off like that. I’ve had that job lined up even before Cobb found me in Mombasa.” Eames rubs the tips of his fingers over his lips, a nervous habit he never managed to completely break. “My only excuse is that finally having– being with you made me daft with giddiness, and admitting to the job would have meant that we had to talk about what was going to happen after. With us.”

“It’s after now.”

Arthur unfolds his arms and steps away from the counter, closer to Eames. “What are we, what am I to you? I’m not always Arthur the Point Man, and there are parts of me that me are very different from him– from who you think he is.” Arthur looks at Eames, his face open and completely honest, letting Eames see that he isn’t the only one who’s afraid that something between them may be irrevocably broken.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” Arthur says. It’s quiet, so very soft, but it touches and breaks something inside Eames without Arthur even laying a finger on him. “The first days were amazing, _you_ were amazing, and I guess I was just too afraid to tell you the things I didn’t like–”

“Like runny eggs and going to art exhibitions every days,” Eames chuckles, running the back of his hand over Arthur’s cheek, heart pounding when Arthur leans into it instead of clocking him over the head.

“At least not every day,” Arthur smiles. “Eames, I’m not as perfect as I want people to believe I am.”

“Darling, if I wanted perfect, I would have taken off with Fischer. You’re amazing, brilliant, and a complete and utter bastard, it’s all part of why I love you.” It’s strange to say it out loud like this, but the pleased little smile that lights Arthur’s face is more than worth feeling a little silly.

“Still, darling, don’t you think that moving out just because you were cross with me is a little over the top?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes. “My lease was up and I’d planned the move before I flew to Paris. Most of my things were already there, what you saw in L.A. was just the rest that needed moving.”

“To a new flat you didn’t want to show me, in case I proved to be a total bastard.”

“It’s a small house, but yes.”

“Are you going to show me now,” Eames asks, his voice low. They’ve moved into each other without even noticing it, and suddenly they’re close enough to share breath.

“If you ask very nicely…”

And suddenly they’re touching and kissing, stumbling their way to the bedroom, clothes coming off and falling every which way. By the time they tumble onto the mattress next to each other, Arthur is down to his underpants and Eames isn’t wearing a single stitch. If he weren’t so busy with putting his hands all over Arthur Eames would pinch himself, because he can hardly believe that he’s having Arthur in his bed.

“Are you going to paw at me all day, or are you actually going to do something with that,” Arthur says. He leans up on his elbows and slowly licks his lips, eyes lingering on Eames’ already half-hard cock, and Eames will be damned if he has ever experienced something hotter than being the sole centre of Arthur’s attention.

“Just making sure I’m not dreaming, love,” Eames rasps, trailing a hand over Arthur’s hip and lower, until he can stroke the soft inside of his thigh. He leans over and Arthur is already there, licks into Eames’ mouth and it’s hot and _urgent_ , just like that afternoon in Los Angeles yet still different now that they know what they want from each other.

“Want you,” Arthur bites into Eames’s mouth. He lies back and tries to pull Eames with him, his blunt fingernails digging into Eames’ neck impatiently, legs sliding open to make room for Eames, but Eames stays put and just _looks_.

Arthur is flushed pink with arousal, his back arching a little, showing off for Eames. He’s fierce and perfect and– God, just how did Eames see him all this time and just didn’t _know_ how much he needs him?

“Arthur, I–”

“I swear to God, if you start talking now I’ll shoot you,” Arthur warns. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but he’s also smiling. “I think you can put your mouth to better use.”

The command goes straight to Eames’ cock, and before he even knows it he’s already sliding down the length of Arthur’s body, settling on his knees between his thighs. This is familiar, even after just a few weeks, and Eames gladly takes this out Arthur is offering him. There will be plenty time to talk about feelings later.

He lets his mouth hover over the damp spot on Arthur’s underwear, teasing Arthur with small kitten licks over the cloth-covered head of his cock until Arthur squirms and slides a hand into his hair, tightening and tugging impatiently.

“Off,” Arthur demands breathlessly, pushing at his underwear with his free hand, and together they manage to peel the offending thing off and over his hips.

Arthur is already wet, cock flushed a lovely red. Eames lets his eyes slide shut as soon as he licks the first stripe over the underside of Arthur’s cock, unable to hold back a moan because he _loves this_ , the salty taste and heavy weight of cock – of Arthur – on his tongue. He lets his instinct guide him, suckles on the head when Arthur draws in a sharp breath, dips his tongue harder into the slit when Arthur can’t hold back a muffled gasp of “fuck, more, more, come _on_ ” and bucks up unapologetically. And Eames gives him more, makes it fast and dirty and messy until Arthur comes with a harsh intake of breath, thighs shaking where they bracket Eames’ sides.

Arthur’s eyes are closed when Eames lets his cock slip from between his lips and finally glances up, takes in his flushed face and his heaving chest. Arthur has three fingers in his mouth, muffling the small sounds that keep spilling out of him. Eames is torn, wants to beg Arthur to take them out because he wants to hear him and also wants to keep watching the way Arthur’s lips stretch tightly around those digits.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames gasps, voice completely shot. He gives a last hard lick to the oversensitive head of Arthur’s cock that coaxes a shivering moan from him, and his own cock twitches in sympathy.

“Get in me,” Arthur says tightly. His orgasm didn’t lessen the urgency that Eames feels echoed in his own body. If anything, he seems to be wound even tighter and tugs Eames up for a sloppy and nose-bumping kiss, breathing “In. Me.” against the corner of Eames’ mouth. He traps Eames’ cock between strong, sweat-slick thighs and _squeezes_ , and Eames’ couldn’t even hold back his surprised shout if he wanted.

“Darling,” Eames laughs breathlessly after he recovers, absolutely delighted, fucking the slippery crease with a lazy roll of his hips. His own cock leaks sticky drops of pre-come with every push between Arthur’s thighs, adding to the wetness, and God, it’s absolutely bloody _amazing_. He could easily come like this, with Arthur mouthing wetly at his throat and the slight pain from his short nails scratching down Eames’ back. It all makes his arousal ratchet higher in a red haze of _hotslicktight_ that almost makes him dizzy, and it’s only Arthur’s “Fuck me”, bitten into his neck where it meets his shoulders, that keeps Eames from coming all over Arthur’s balls.

“Bloody hell, love, such wickedness must be rewarded.” Eames manages to finally still his hips and kisses Arthur wetly on the cheek, biting lightly along his jaw and throat. He thinks his heart misses a beat or two at the brief appearance of two dimples and a playful smirk on Arthur’s face.

Eames is quite proud that he can scrape together enough wits to fumble for lube and a condom in his nightstand, but it’s only to have the plastic bottle snatched out of his fingers with an impatient huff of “Give me that or I’ll die of old age.”

“Watch,” Arthur says, biting his lip, stroking slippery fingers between his own cheeks. He doesn’t go slow; pushes two fingers inside with a moan, feet sliding apart and hips working to take them in as deep as possible. “God, Arthur, the things I want to do to you,” Eames exhales shakily, his whole body flushing hot while he watches Arthur working himself open impatiently.

He simply can’t _not_ touch him. Eames strokes the inside of his thighs, pressing small circles into the slick skin that draw a hiss from Arthur and a low “fuck, fuck Eames, _condom_ ” when he strokes a dry thumb over Arthur’s hole, dipping briefly between Arthur’s fingers where he’s stretching himself open.

Eames fumbles the condom on as fast as he can, anticipation shivering down his spine because he missed this, missed being _inside Arthur_ , tight heat and slick softness, and he cannot wait–

His back hits the mattress hard, breath rushing out of him with a surprised _oof_.

“Seems like I have to do all the work here,” Arthur says, kneeling over Eames with a full-dimpled grin that’s somewhere between playfully wicked and completely evil. He steadies Eames’ cock and sinks down on him, hips pushing down, slow but steady, until his arse is nestled against Eames’ lap. Eames’ breath stutters at the feeling of tight heat sheathing his cock, the sight of Arthur’s entrance stretching wide to let him in. He twists the sheets between his fingers, desperate to touch, and his hands come up to bracket Arthur’s hips as soon as skin meets skin.

Eames stares up at him, his heart hammering with arousal and a sudden, fierce wave of possessiveness. His mind is playing a loop of _mineminemine_ that he’s sure Arthur will find creative ways to punish him for if he ever finds out.

Arthur’s eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning against flushed skin, his lips slightly parted around a low moan of utter decadence. Eames marvels at how Arthur gives himself so freely, even after everything that happened. It’s humbling, a gift, and Eames is a bleeding idiot for not appreciating it sooner.

Eames can’t help it, he pushes up the second Arthur lifts his hips and sinks down on him again, earning himself a choked “fuck yes, again”.

Arthur rides him like he owns him. He uses Eames’ hands on his hips to steady himself, threading his fingers through Eames’ while he fucks himself on Eames’ cock. He’s gorgeous, his back arched, head thrown back in abandon while he watches Eames with half-lidded eyes and slowly takes him apart.

Eames can do little more than let himself be utterly wrecked. He pushes up into Arthur every time Arthur sinks down on him, and almost chokes at the feeling of Arthur tightening like a fist around his cock – _tightightight_ – every time Eames hits his prostate.

It’s hard and urgent and Eames comes first with a deep groan, heart pounding and balls spasming when Arthur reaches behind himself and rolls them between his fingers. Arthur grinds down on him with a sharp hiss of “fuck, _Eames_ ”, coming for the second time, thick and wet spurts over Eames’ fingers before Eames even manages to properly close his hand around him.

They lie there for long moments, catching their breath, before Arthur lifts and rolls off of Eames with a wince. He butts his head aggressively against Eames’ shoulder, making room for himself with surprising strength for somebody who just managed to utterly wreck Eames and quite possibly ruin him for everyone else.

“Don’t wake me unless this shack is burning down,” Arthur mumbles, pressing a sloppy kiss against Eames’ shoulder that turns into a yawn midway. “Or if you’re ready for another round.”

Eames is too blissfully fucked out himself to take any offense at the not-quite-soft snoring that follows. Considering the state they’re both in, he doesn’t think round two will happen before at least a hearty midnight snack.

He tries to remember where he put the breakfast tray Yusuf brought over the last time he made Eames cat-sit, and if there are any eggs left in the fridge. He doesn’t think so, but… Eames still makes a mental note to stock up on chili and cereal.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is much appreciated! For updates, snippets and whinings on my fics, feel free to add me on [tumblr](http://ohfreckle.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/ohfreckle)


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